


if i could live inside this dance i would

by Naomida



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, this story is the definition of writing for myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 07:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naomida/pseuds/Naomida
Summary: The daily life of Archmage Vargoth.





	1. The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [if i could reach and hold your hand i would](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383394) by [Naomida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naomida/pseuds/Naomida). 



Technically speaking, Vargoth had gotten married three times – always to the same person. Ravandwyr always swore up and down that they had actually gotten married eight times and a half and Vargoth had to admit that his knowledge of elven marital ceremonies was too lacking for him to tell whether the elf was joking or not – although he was pretty sure one of these eight times was that one time he had made him come so hard, Ravandwyr had cried for seven minutes straight, because elves were strange enough to consider that kind of thing being equivalent to a wedding night.

Still, technically, he was three times married to the same man, and Ravandwyr was asking him to marry him again.

Vargoth blinked down at him, conscious of the fact that everyone around was looking at them because it was obvious that the kneeling elf holding his hand was proposing, and people here in Stormwind _loved_ it – Vargoth had been born in Stromgarde and still couldn’t wrap his head around all of Stormwind’s customs and its people’s taste.

“We’re already married,” he said.

“I know,” smiled Ravandwyr, and it was that smile that had made him fall in love and always managed to have him shaking, “but we never had a _real_ ceremony, with the Light and the people we love and everything.”

Vargoth nodded.

Their third wedding had been done Kirin Tor style, with an Archmage reading the citizen code of Dalaran while Ravandwyr and Vargoth were stiffly standing next to each other in front of him, wearing their official robes. They had done it more by obligation than anything else. It just made things easier in times of war to be officially recognized as spouses by the Kirin Tor.

“So,” said Ravandwyr, who was still on one knee and had started to run his thumb over the knuckles of Varoght’s hand that he was still holding, “do you want to marry me in a huge cathedral while a thousand of people have to watch because they were invited?”

A smile pulled at Vargoth’s mouth.

“Maybe not a thousand people, but yes, I do want that.”

The people witnessing it cheered loudly as Ravandwyr got back on his feet, took Vargoth into his arms and kissed him.

Vargoth closed his eyes and firmly wrapped his arms around his waist, feeling lighter with happiness despite what he was trying to project – because out of three times, there had only been one proposal, and it had been Vargoth doing the kneeling and talking and kissing.

It felt good to let Ravandwyr have his turn at it and just follow along and say yes.


	2. The Lightfather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably won't understand everything unless you've read my story "if i could reach and hold your hand i would"

Vargoth had become a sort of famous personality in Dalaran. He was less popular than Khadgar, but he was pretty sure no one ever tried to hug Modera the way people he didn’t know did with him in the middle of the street.

He didn’t know where this was coming from, or why people liked him so much while also having absolutely no idea who half of the Council of Six was, but he couldn’t say he was chagrined by it. Being loved was always better than being treated like Kalec was – and once again, Vargoth hadn’t paid enough attention to know why, exactly, people hated him so much.

It wasn’t rare to see Ravandwyr hiss like a cat at people he found too friendly with him, and it never failed to make Vargoth laugh – and then moan later, because a jealous Ravandwyr was a handsy and _thorough_ one, and Vargoth couldn’t complain.

Still, that day was a calm one, adoring people wise, and Vargoth smiled at the orc who stopped them near the fountain – orcs were rare, generally it was the trolls who loved him a little _too_ much.

“Ravandwyr,” said the orc, to their surprise, not even throwing a single glance Vargoth’s way, and the Archmage wondered for a second if he’d have to use force or if Ravandwyr was finally receiving the praise he deserved.

“Yes?” replied the high elf, frowning and slowly letting go of Vargoth’s hand – he was getting ready for a fight too.

“My name is Danar,” said the orc in Thalassian – to their surprise – “you probably don’t remember me but I’m–”

“Azaeyn’s son!” exclaimed Ravandwyr, taking a step closer to him.

A little shocked, Vargoth closely watched the elf’s face, surprised to find a smile there, and a certain glow in his eyes that had disappeared a long time ago on Draenor, back when the land had still been green and whole.

The orc nodded slowly, something very akin to shyness passing over his face.

“I brought you to this world, you know,” said Ravandwyr, his smile growing bigger.

Vargoth knew some of the story – Ravandwyr had told him after they had first arrived in Dalaran – but he had never really understood how important it had been for Ravandwyr until now that he was seeing his face and the way he was looking at Danar.

“I know,” he replied, taking a step closer to Ravandwyr too, “my mother told me what it means, in our culture.”

Ravandwyr took him in his arms instead of saying anything, and it shouldn’t have looked so natural for someone as big as an orc to fold into him and make himself look so small, but somehow it seemed fitting, and Vargoth looked away, the moment seeming too intimate for him to spy on them like that.

  


  


***

  


  


“I’m his Lightfather, Vargoth, I’m not sure you understand!” exclaimed Ravandwyr, three days later.

“You explained it to me twice already, I understand very well but I still have to ask: aren’t you doing a little too much?”

Ravandwyr threw him an outraged look and continued depositing bags after bags on their table.

“I have _a lot_ to make up for,” he said, reaching into one bag and getting a yellow candle out, using it to point at Vargoth, “we’re old, my love, his birth was a long time ago.”

“Can’t you just celebrate all the birthdays you missed all at once?” asked Vargoth, looking back down at the vial he was trying to cork.

His hands were shaking a lot that day, especially the right one, and he was starting to grow frustrated.

“It’s not about his birthdays!” said Ravandwyr, before Vargoth felt warm hands gently squeeze his shoulders. “Let me do it for you, okay?” he said softly, taking the vial and cork from him.

Frowning and feeling silly, Vargoth let him do it and put the vial back down in its spot on his desk, before Ravandwyr was threading fingers through his hair and sitting down on his lap, facing him.

Vargoth wrapped his arms around him and relaxed a little, even feeling a smile pulling at his lips when Ravandwyr kissed his forehead.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

Vargoth nodded and closed his eyes when Ravandwyr kissed his forehead again.

“I can stay home tonight, if you want. I’m sure Danar will understand.”

“No,” replied the archmage, shaking his head, “go do your strange rituals with him, I’m seeing Modera and Meryl tonight, I’ll be fine.”

Ravandwyr was frowning slight, looking concerned, when Vargoth opened his eyes again, and not for the first time he wondered what he had done to deserve him.

“I promise I’ll be fine,” he added, kissing Ravandwyr’s chin and smiling when the elf did. “Just, please, stop buying so much stuff, we’re starting to run out of storage space.”

Ravandwyr rolled his eyes, but he looked happy again.

  


  


***

  


  


Vargoth hadn’t really realized what was really going on until he woke up one day to find Ravandwyr and Danar in the living room looking through old photos from the prototype SELFIE camera Vargoth had been given before crossing the Dark Portal.

“The colors are a little pale here,” was saying the elf, pointing at a photo, “but the water was green, barely darker than grass, and here,” he pointed at another photo, “is where your mother used to live.”

“And you?” asked Danar.

“I was in the mage tower, since I was one of the Archmage’s apprentice,” he replied, turning a page of the photo album and pointing at another photo. A faraway look crossed his face and he smiled tenderly down at the photo, thumbing at it. “We had the best view you could hope for. Vargoth and I would spend all our evenings at the balcony at the very top of the tower to look at the stars.”

Vargoth smiled, the memories of such times warming his heart, and he slowly backed up and went back to the bedroom, deciding to leave them alone.

He was pretty sure he had accidentally acquired an adopted step-son.


End file.
